


Heart Condition

by LittlexWing



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Oral Sex, Romance, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:27:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3188936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittlexWing/pseuds/LittlexWing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“ John doesn’t mean there’s actually something wrong with my heart. He’s trying to make fun of the age difference between us.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart Condition

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from tumblr account. It came to me and I wrote it. That's about the only excuse I have.

Chris Argent gets a lot of shit for being with her.

Braeden doesn't understand most of it.

That's not saying much; as most of it is the product of the Stilinskis. Stiles says a lot of stupid things and John makes a lot of 'dad jokes'. Neither one of these are particularly worth listening to, so she tends to block them out a lot.

Which means when she becomes concerned about this sudden 'heart condition' that Chris is supposed to have, he has to explain to her that the actual blood pumping muscle in his chest is fine. He wasn't born with a hole in it anywhere, he doesn't need a pacemaker and his arteries are clean and clear.

“ John doesn't mean there's actually something wrong with my heart. He's trying to make fun of the age difference between us.”

She doesn't make the connection right away.

“ He's implying that keeping up with you, at my age (which is still younger than his age by the way), might effect my heart."

. . . Oh.

So she is the heart condition Chris has to watch out for.

Well that's just silly.

If John knew anything about their sex life, he'd know that she was the one in danger of being worn out. Not Chris. She is younger than Chris by ten years or so, but she's only fucking human. Yeah, he's a forty-two year old man. But Chris Argent is still Chris fucking Argent.

And Chris fucking Argent is a goddamn workhorse.

Not in the sense that he throws her into the bed and they fuck all night. He's not interested in “mindless jackhammering." It's unnecessary stress on his back and frankly, that's no way to treat a woman. There's no appreciation, there's no gratitude on the man's part for the woman allowing him what she doesn't allow others. Rushing headlong to the end is foolish. You miss all the best parts. The blissed out look on her face when you touch her exactly how she needs to be touched. Find the places she didn't know could effect her that way. Move in such a way she locks her legs around your body, grabs onto your ass because she never, ever wants you to leave. 

And to be perfectly honest, there's plenty of ways he can get her off without killing his lower back. That's not fun. That can't be pleasurable for all parties involved. That's for idiot young men with no one's interest in mind except for their own. His logic, not her's. She never stopped to think about it like that. 

Now, of course, she knows better.

She knows he genuinely derives pleasure in pleasuring her. Sometimes he outright asks her what she wants, sometimes he goes by her body alone. Sometimes he just wants to make her feel good regardless of what else they're doing. Whether that be fingering her out of her mind on the couch, making her ride his hand under the dinner table, or waking her up with his head between her legs. 

And every time she arches off the bed, and pushes at his shoulders, and begs him—begs him—to stop tracing his name over her clit and fuck her, she gets yet another reminder.

Chris fucking Argent is also a bit of a bastard too.

He doesn't want to make her suffer, of course. He doesn't relentlessly torture her until she can't speak anymore. But it isn't beyond him to draw back until she calms down, kiss her hips, her thighs, her stomach, squeeze her hands, then tell her he's not finished with her and make her squirm on his tongue again. And again. And again. Until she whines and begs again, or wrenches him up by his hair and barks an order to fuck her right now.

By that time, she's probably had anywhere from two to four orgasms, and he only wants one. She's fucking panting and her heart's the one that's racing like she just ran a marathon instead of slept with a man ten years her senior. Chris simply looks relaxed and ready to sleep after all he's done. Like his hair isn't spiked from her hands in it, or his back isn't on fire from her nails, or there isn't a bite on his shoulder he's going to have to cover later. Lest he have to explain that it was caused by very human teeth when said human was in the throes of her rather intense orgasm. 

He doesn't, of course, just roll over and sleep. Not without kissing her first, telling her how beautiful she is, how he likes to make her happy, that he loves her, and maybe, if he feels like being an asshole, stick his hand between her legs again to make her jump. Then he laughs when he kisses her. And laughs some more when she bites him for it.

Dick. His heart's perfectly fine then too.

Chris does still surprise her with how affectionate he actually is. She's not a touchy person by nature. She didn't think he was either, to be perfectly honest. He doesn't look like it or act like it to meet him on the street.

She, personally, could never really afford to be that way. Not that she was presented with much reason to be. She wasn't raised in a touchy family for one, and her lifestyle after the fact didn't really allow for it. Not and her continue to live, anyway. It was easier to punch Chris than it was to simply hold his hand for a very long time.

If there was a time she put stress on his heart, it had to be then. He never seemed to get upset though. No matter how many times she spurned him, leaned away when he leaned in, told him, “fuck off, Argent. Don't touch me, motherfucker, go away.”

He'd risk a punch in the arm to kiss her anyway. Because she was upset about something and he knew she needed it. She needed him even if she said otherwise.

She never really knew what touch or affectionate-starvation was until they got together. She's gone without both for so long, she didn't know what she was missing until he gave it; and then he gives it so freely. It's so easy for him. Like breathing. It's not that way for her. For her it's like breathing underwater.

He never asks why she seems to only have the one setting when it comes to them getting physical. Rough. Desperate. Frantic. Needy. Rushed. He never pulls her hands from their hard grip on his hair. He never bans her hands from scratching up his back. He never questions why she bites when she kisses him. He only takes issue when she draws blood. He laughs at her. Looks at her like she's the only thing he sees in the world. Takes her face in his hands and tells her, “ Slow down. I'm not going anywhere. Neither are you. We've got all the time in the world.”

Then he strokes her cheek, her jaw, touches her waist and breathes into her so she's not suffocating anymore. She still clutches him like she's drowning sometimes. But she's learning to breathe on her own now.

She's graduated from harsh and aggressive to curious and playful. Still working her way towards loving and gentle. If she should be worried about anything of Chris' wearing out, it would be patience, not his heart.

She's still learning. Sometimes she can't face his loving gaze because surely, no man could ever feel so strongly for her. She trips over returning his “I love you”s and grows increasingly frustrated with herself when she can't say the words back. At times, her frustration grows to the point she questions how he could want this. Want her. For the rest of his life? He can do so much better. What makes him think he actually loves her as much as he thinks he does?

Chris takes her hand, puts it on his chest, over where his heart is. Where she rests her head when he comes back injured after a hunt to comfort herself, to comfort him. She can feel his heartbeat. She can feel his heart beat fast. “ Do you know why my heart's doing that?”

She doesn't.

“ Because I can see you.”

Once, so very taken by his hand over her own she couldn't speak, she can now look up at him. See him smiling, and happy, and in love with her. See what effect she, a “heart condition”, has on a forty-two year old man that by all accounts should probably have a real heart condition of some kind.

She still doesn't listen to the stupid things the Stilinski men say. (And they still say a lot.) But if being “Chris' twenty-something heart condition” is what makes him look at her like that, makes him feel like that, makes his heart race at just the sight of her like that, if she effects him like that, she can live with it. 

And, she supposes, she'll let them live too.


End file.
